Mind Games
by trufflemores
Summary: 4.09 spec. DeVoe kidnaps Barry.
1. Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Mr. Allen."

Lying flat on his back on a cold tile floor, Barry grimaces. There's a monstrous headache behind his eyes, shouldering aside every attempt to think about anything other than the pounding pain. "What do you want?" he slurs, more tired than angry. He doesn't move to get up, focusing on keeping his breath even and his panic low. He's already made his move; he has to trust that his friends will respond to it.

When he confronted DeVoe in his own home, he should have seen the inherent advantage. But he was too focused on something (bright-white-light-noise) and didn't scan the room properly. Instead he drifted closer to DeVoe, a mongoose in a snake den, unaware that his quarry was two steps ahead of him and primed to strike. The only giveaway was the flicker in DeVoe's voice, the tiniest lilt of entitlement creeping into his final words. Without waiting for the takedown, Barry smashed the panic button on his emblem a hundredth of a second before a staggering array of darts punched a line down his spine.

The venom acted so quickly he couldn't draw his next breath. Paralysis sank its teeth into his back and legs, bringing him down. His chest would not move; he strained with every ounce of strength left to him to arch off the floor. A terrible wheeze finally fractured a rib to break through, but it wasn't enough. "Surrender," DeVoe intoned, "or suffer."

It went on for the better part of fifteen minutes, a herculean struggle. DeVoe watched him, occasionally indulging him in the time: "Four minutes." "Eight minutes." "Twelve minutes."

They didn't make it to sixteen.

Groaning softly, Barry reaches up to press both hands against his forehead, his brain attempting to batter-ram its way out of his skull. "What do you want?" he repeats, voice crackling like gravel underfoot. The paralysis is gone, but its absence only makes him shake in place, violent tremors that snag more of the fight from his limbs.

"I want to live," DeVoe replies, close enough that Barry opens his eyes. What he sees is alien: green lights in a featureless room flushing the visage of a pale figure sitting in a hovering chair. Barry blinks, blurry vision yielding few details, but he can't make his eyes focus. Even though DeVoe leans over thoughtfully, he shuts his eyes.

The next time he comes to, he feels stronger. Fire like rage courses through him, overcoming the dull ache in the back of his skull. With painstaking ferocity, he shoves himself upright. "DeVoe," he bites out, balancing precariously, nausea threatening to steal what lying still for hours hasn't already: his steadiness, his show of strength. " _DeVoe_."

"That's Professor DeVoe, Mr. Allen," DeVoe corrects, disconcertingly close. Barry turns to face him and loses his balance, hitting the floor. "I have to admit, I experienced a moment of – trepidation, when I calculated how much venom it would take to subdue you," he muses, less than six feet away. Barry lies flat on his back for a moment, reaching up to press his hands to his forehead. "Off by a milligram, and this would be a failed science experiment."

With a growl pooling deep in his chest, Barry plants his hands on either side of him and forces himself upright. He doesn't stop until he's standing, shaking in place but holding his ground. "What do you _want_?" he snaps.

"I thought that was obvious," DeVoe explains coolly, _haven't you been listening?_ Barry ignores the prickle of unease in his stomach, like he should remember. "I want to live," DeVoe drawls. He smiles; it isn't reassuring. "I need your Speed Force."

Barry doesn't have the strength or coordination to Flash yet, but he advances on DeVoe steadily. DeVoe holds his ground. "I thought you were smart," Barry counters, halting just in front of him. The power radiating from the chair makes his torso go numb, but he doesn't step back, even as it trickles up his neck, attempting to undo everything that the Speed Force has set in stone. "Everyone else who tried to take it? Died."

"Oh, but that's not true." Barry takes another step towards him and lurches away involuntarily as a jolt of electricity shunts him back hard, a punch to the chest. "Eobard Thawne is still alive. On principle, so is Savitar – through you. Even Zolomon had his turn at infinity, chasing down other speedsters. Your friends tried to kill them. Your friends _failed_. And you, Mr. Allen – you were the weakest link of all. You brought them all down with you." Barry tries and fails to stand as the pressure kneels on his back, a heavy, irresistible thing. His knees hit the floor hard. "It is a mercy to them to remove you from the equation."

Barry plants his fists on the floor, trembling. He struggles to push himself upright. "You shouldn't have kidnapped me," he spits. "I didn't have a reason to go after you before. Now I do."

"Mr. Allen, you were going after me before you'd seen my face," DeVoe reminds. "You will continue to fight me to your last breath." The pressure increases tenfold. Barry lets out a grunt, flattening against the floor. "Desist, and we can negotiate."

Barry snarls against the tile. The pressure on his back is unbearable. "All right," he snaps. The pressure alleviates. The second Barry gains an opening, he uses his Speed to lunge for DeVoe. He surges forward, grasping DeVoe's wrist, intending to yank him out of the chair. Instead, he freezes in place, completely paralyzed, a familiar panic exploding in his chest when the next breath will not come.

"Your entire _body_ is made of Speed," DeVoe tells him in a punishing monotone, drawing it out. "You are a lightning strike waiting to happen." With idle unconcern, he uses his opposing hand to pry Barry's from his wrist, keeping it trapped in a vice-like hold. "I could kill you like this," he drones. "You would suffocate and pass out in about two minutes. Brain damage would begin after four. Inside ten minutes you would be unrevivable." Black spots fan across Barry's vision. He can barely hear DeVoe finish, "Is this really the way you want to die, Mr. Allen?"

Then he is thrown back half a dozen yards, crashing onto his side and wheezing harshly for breath. Clutching his throat, he curls up into a partial ball, trying to smother the panic building in his chest. "The Great and Terrible Flash," DeVoe muses. "You are alive and well in a century. I am dead, another _villain_ vanquished by your heroic efforts."

He glides forward in his chair. Barry scrambles back a few steps, hating himself for his instinctive fear, his instant repulsion. "The victors write the history books," DeVoe recites. "I will be victorious." He pauses feet away, folding his hands on his lap. "I want to live. You have the one thing that will allow me to defy the odds and survive this catastrophe."

"My Speed." Barry's voice sounds serrated, raw.

"No." Barry frowns, forcing himself upright, ignoring the abominable pain in his chest. "Your Speed Force."

"What does that even mean?" He knows the Speed Force, knows it like his own soul, but – "You want to go there?" He huffs. It isn't fond. "Okay. I can take you to the Speed Force."

DeVoe stares at him, unblinking, for a long time. At last, he has to avert his own gaze, the unsettling feeling in his chest too strong to ignore. "A blood transfusion, while revitalizing, will not cure a person with renal failure," DeVoe explains. "I am not looking to prolong my own suffering. I am looking to cure it." He glides closer. Barry retreats backwards at the same pace. "Speed is useless without context, Mr. Allen. Yours is powerful, but only because of the Speed Force. I could take all of your Speed today and still not survive the year."

Barry's back hits a wall. He tries and fails to Flash away, letting out a snarl of pain as he slides across the floor. "Couldn't give it to you even if I wanted to, DeVoe," he breathes, pushing himself upright and putting distance between them. "It's not a _thing_ —"

"It is an entity." The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of Barry's neck stand. "When I look at you, Mr. Allen, I don't see a man with an extraordinary ability. I see a man with an extraordinary _connection_. You misunderstand the relationship that is most important to you. How have you survived this long, exactly?"

"You're the genius, you tell me," Barry says, surreptitiously looking around the room. There are no doors, windows, or even walls – it's a hodge-podge of green and black tiles. "What is this place?" he deflects.

"My study," DeVoe replies. "Free from distractions." His fingers play idly across the arm rests of his chair as he explains, "Your connection is what I want. But I have a little _problem_. I cannot access the Speed Force on my own."

Barry wants to laugh, but his breath is too thin. "You want me to take you there. Okay." He dares to step forward again. "I will take you to the Speed Force, DeVoe."

"And ensure I drown in eternity," DeVoe says, waving a hand. "Not interested. I am also not interested in torturing compliance out of you. Torture is a notoriously messy affair. The probabilities of success are unfavorable, and if you die, all that hard work will be for naught."

Barry feels a chill work down his spine as he stares at the man casually talking about his demise. "So what's your next move?" he asks in a low voice.

DeVoe stares at him in a way that indicates he would lift an eyebrow, if the monstrosity capping his cranium permitted it. "Eager, are we? Very well." He calls out in a surprisingly soft tone, "Marlize, my darling?"

A woman in a white coat materializes. Barry tenses, instinctively prepared to fight if needed. "Entertain the idea of harming her and I will leave you as paralyzed as I am," DeVoe intones coolly. "My wife, would you mind showing him STAR Labs?"

Barry growls low in his throat. "I knew you had cameras—"

Marlize turns one of the green panels around. A screen on it makes Barry's heart pound. It's his family, in the middle of what appear to be tense negotiations. Ralph, Harry, Wally, Cisco, Joe – _Iris_. _Please, please go home_ , he silently implores, but none of them abandon their post. He can tell they're consulting a screen, and his suit is conspicuously absent from its rack. _Panic button works_ , he thinks, but it only makes him feel sick. _Get out of there_.

He can't even verbalize his greatest fear: _if you hurt them_ —

"I could kill them," DeVoe muses. "There is sufficient technology in the vicinity to override and annihilate any human inhabitants in the area. There are two exceptions in the room." He glides his chair over to the screen. Barry keeps his distance from the DeVoes, scanning the back of the chair for any weaknesses. "Wallace West and Francesco Ramon. If I triggered any lethal actions, then they could evacuate the group before anything went truly awry. The maneuver would fail."

Barry thinks, _We have to upgrade security. False locks, manual overrides, hard copies of everything, escape routes that aren't mapped, change it all every week._

"Mr. West is like you. Conveniently, his suit is similar to yours. There is a defibrillator in the jacket. Thermal devices throughout the extremities. Communication devices capable of emitting fan _tastic_ decibels. To name but a few lethal options. The worst part, Mr. Allen?" Barry swallows hard. He would throw up otherwise. "All of the technology is _remotely accessible_. Your friends saved your life when you were far away. I have that same access."

"If you hurt him—" Barry's voice rasps. "I will never stop coming after you."

"You will continue that course of action no matter what I do," DeVoe dismisses. Marlize rests a hand casually on the arm of his chair, and he places his hand over hers. "Wally's life was sufficiently threatening to motivate you once. It did not work then. You gave up your Speed, but you reclaimed it, thanks to that extraordinary connection you have with the Speed Force. No one but you could have survived that event, Mr. Allen. Absolutely no one."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Barry says flatly, daring to step towards them. If he could incapacitate Marlize – but fire erupts across his chest and he cries out, reaching to claw at the thermo-regulators branding his skin. "Enough!"

"I will decide when it is _enough_ ," DeVoe says in a voice fully an octave deeper. "You _insolent_ little boy."

Barry tries and fails to suck in a breath, but the pain is blindingly intense. He crashes to his knees. Tearing at the suit does nothing to it. His hands fumble with the zipper, agitation making them shake harder, and he realizes that it's been fused to the jacket. With a furious groan, he gives it up, fisting his hands in his hair and shouting, " _DEVOE!_ "

At last, the heat drains away; the electrical impulse dies. He scrabbles at the collar of the suit, struggling to draw in enough air through his panic. "I told you not to _think_ about harming her," DeVoe says ominously. "Or did you forget what I am capable of? I can _see everything_ , Mr. Allen."

Hunched over, Barry does not respond. Coolly, DeVoe explains, "That is what will happen to Mr. West if you take another step." When Barry doesn't stand, he goes on. "Mr. West is not my greatest concern. He is powerful, and incapacitating him will greatly reduce their ability to cope with a second wave of disasters, but it would not be enough to stop their _heroic_ efforts." He sneers; Barry doesn't look at his face to see it. "If anything, it will energize them. I need to break them."

It makes Barry sick to think about how much he has to _lose_ , how he cannot protect any of them. "I'll do what you want," he insists to the floor. He howls in pain when a second jolt of electricity ignites his chest, branching out to his fingertips.

"Pain is a powerful deterrent," DeVoe muses without looking at him. "It fails as a motivator because the brain is designed to suppress it. Once it has been removed, we forget what it felt like. Our contractual obligations lose all meaning without a finite understanding of what is at stake."

Cross-eyed with it, Barry presses his fists against the floor, shaking hard. "I'll – do – what – you – want," he gasps.

"Pain is a deterrent, Mr. Allen, not a motivator," DeVoe reminds, infuriatingly calm. "The second I stop, your benevolence disappears." Instructively, perhaps, the pain stops, all at once. But it lingers, like ash on Barry's tongue, an unshakable tremor in his limbs. "Repeat your previous claim."

He should, but it is like acid in his stomach; fury overrides it. "Go to hell."

DeVoe laughs. "Do you see, Marlize? His response is exactly as I predicted."

Marlize says sweetly, "That is why you are my brilliant husband."

"You will make an extraordinary lightning rod," DeVoe tells her.

Barry freezes. In a low voice, he asks, "What did you just say?"

"She will make an extraordinary lightning rod," DeVoe repeats. "After all, Iris West-Allen is yours. Congratulations on the wedding. I heard it was interrupted twice."

Barry stands on legs that do not want to support him. "You're right," he says softly, insidiously.

"I am always right, Mr. Allen."

"I won't stop," Barry persists, staggering forward. "I won't ever stop hunting you now."

"I am not finished," DeVoe says. He points to the screen. "Watch."

Barry lets his gaze slide over the screen, staggering forward. Cisco puts a hand to his head. His brow furrows. Conversation continues unabated. "Did you know he experiences migraines?" DeVoe says coolly. On screen, Cisco shakes his head, dismissing a concerned remark from Iris. Barry's heart pounds.

"DeVoe," he says softly, voice on its knees even as he steps forward. "Don't—"

"This one will not set off any alarms. At first." All at once, Cisco drops to the floor, mouth open in a yell. "Something is amiss," DeVoe narrates, simpering. "What will your friends do?"

 _Where's Caitlin?_ Barry thinks, because she would be there, diagnosing, recognizing that something was deeply wrong, but she's not in the small crowd gathered around Cisco. His mouth is still dropped open in a scream. Barry staggers on.

"Superstring theory allows the small mind to cope with the unknowable cosmos," DeVoe carries on, even as Cisco begins to thrash on the floor, hands clutching his hair. Barry's heart pounds.

"Let him go," he says, but he does not dare Flash, and his legs do not want to step any closer. Ten feet. _Go_.

"It is so much worse than any of you could possibly understand," DeVoe growls. "In twenty years, you will realize exactly how hopeless the endeavor is and abandon your search for a 'theory of everything.' In fifty, you will try to patch the wounds of Einsteinian and Newtonian physics, but they will both fall. All of it will fall. The cosmos is not knowable to the human mind. Try though you might, it is something you can never hope to understand."

"Let him _go_ ," Barry shouts, refusing to be deterred from the pandemonium on-screen. He staggers forward three more steps, and has to pause, feeling the force field around DeVoe's chair pushing him back.

DeVoe makes a soft, sneering sound, and Cisco goes limp on-screen. "You push my magnanimity to its limits, Mr. Allen. _As I was saying_ , the universe is beyond your understanding. It is grander, more twisted, and more evasive than you ever dared to think of it. There are no _rules_. You fool yourselves every time you find them because exceptions lie everywhere." Barry cannot avert his gaze from the screen, his heart bleeding with apology: _I'm sorry. I'm sorry_. "Vibes, as you call them, are old rules in a lawless universe. They do not manipulate strings. They manipulate the _mind_."

Barry frowns and looks at DeVoe. "I don't understand," he admits hollowly, catching his team trying to revive Cisco from the corner of his eye.

DeVoe says, "You are incapable of understanding."

Lunging forward at Speed, ignoring the sharp, splintering pain that erupts from his hand on contact, he yanks hard on DeVoe's chair. Eerily, neither DeVoe startles; Marlize simply steps aside while her husband narrows his eyes, allowing the contact – at tremendous cost. Barry's arm shakes hard, pain ricocheting from bone to muscle and back again. "Try me," he snaps.

In response, the world lurches underneath him. DeVoe keeps a cold hand over his wrist, grip tightening like a python. Barry's vision blacks out, then bursts into colors, searing, overlapping, hypnotic colors. He tries to pull away but DeVoe hangs on. His smile is dark, delirious, sinister beyond imagining. "This is the first layer of infinity," he declares. "Light." The kaleidoscopic mix of red and blue and yellow is nauseating. Barry can't look away. "This is what the world _really_ looks like."

Every word he says causes the colors around him to shiver, coalesce, transform, disappear. Idly, entranced, Barry looks down at himself and sees a burning red darkness, almost invisible. It's all-consuming, an image that draws him in, ushers him farther away from reality, and he realizes that this is the impression Speed Force makes in the world: darkness, tinted with red light, the last embers of his humanity persisting in the ether.

"Fantastic, is it not?" DeVoe says. Barry looks up at him and feels sick with the contrast, overwhelmed by the sheer sensory overload. "You are an isle of calm in a cosmos filled with _noise_. If I took your Speed, it would do nothing for me. But if I took your _Speed Force_ , that very thing that makes you like this, Mr. Allen … then I would be who I am meant to be. The body would match the mind."

"You can't have it," Barry manages, and DeVoe lets him go, the world sinking back into darkness, dizzying, almost overwhelming darkness. He slumps to the floor for a moment, placing his palms on it to steady him.

"I cannot break you, or you will not comply," DeVoe humors aloud, drifting away from him. Marlize follows. "I can still inflict enough harm to accomplish my goals."

Something sharp spears the back of Barry's shoulder. He groans in pain, reaching back for it, but darkness is already closing in. "Sleep tight."

Barry is out before the first protest is out of his mouth.

. o .

"Rise and shine, Mr. Allen."

Curled up on his side, Barry groans, reaching up to rub his eyes. There's a pounding headache in his skull. Attempting to sit up ignites more pain, so he stays down. The floor is cold, hardwood. A fire crackles nearby. He rolls onto his back, staring up at a cream-colored ceiling. "Where am I?" he slurs, rubbing his eyes.

"My study," DeVoe responds nearby. Every muscle in Barry's body tenses. "You stood up to leave and passed out."

Lying flat, Barry demands sluggishly, "For how long?"

DeVoe shuffles back his sleeve, watch jingling. "Thirty minutes, give or take." Something's not right, the imprecision – it's not right. But Barry can't make the puzzle pieces connect in his brain. DeVoe nears him in his – wheelchair? Barry waits for it to hover off the ground, but that can't be right. No, it's just – a chair. And it's just DeVoe in it. He doesn't know what he expected differently, but – "Marlize, my darling? Our guest is awake."

"Oh, thank God," Marlize effuses, entering the room and crouching beside him. Barry flinches from her, but – she's in a forest green sweater and grey colored pants, harmless as harmless can appear. She says, "Let me help you." Too disoriented to argue, he lets her put an arm around his shoulders, hissing in pain as points of sharpness dig into his skin. "You fell quite hard," she says, indicating a coffee table nearby. Ah. That's the sharpness. "We were worried."

"Something's – not right," he mumbles aloud, trying and failing to pull away from her grip. God, he's weak. And _tired_. Where the hell did all of this exhaustion come from? _I'm not eating enough_ , he thinks, and his stomach growls obligingly. He flushes. "I – I should, I should go—"

"We called Detective West for you," Marlize explains, arm around his waist to support him. More pressure points along his back, but – he can almost feel the coffee table dig into his back, hear the startled cries of the DeVoes. He flushes. "He should be here—"

A pounding knock on the door precedes Joe letting himself in. "Barry!" he barks, entering the study, anxiety pouring from him in waves. "What did you do?" he demands of the DeVoes.

"Easy, Joe," Barry slurs. Marlize lets him go and he struggles forward a step, stumbles forward a step, and Joe catches him. "S'okay."

With almost forceful relief, Joe drags his arm over his broader shoulders. "All right. All right, Bar." Then, with a tense sort of anxiety Barry has come to _know_ , but can't place from _what_ , he tells the DeVoes stiffly, "Thank you for the call."

"We sincerely hope he is all right," DeVoe says.

Barry tries to respond, to keep up a show of politeness, but he can't make his mouth form words, so he lets Joe guide him out of the house instead.

"I'm taking you to STAR," Joe tells him the second the doors are shut. Barry doesn't even remember being put into the front passenger's seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest, and… he reaches up to his chest, but there is no suit. Where's his suit? "Right now."

"Joe, I'm – fine," he tries, because he can feel the tension radiating from Joe, and Joe's been under enough stress as it is, he doesn't need more, but his eyelids are already sinking. He rests his cheek against the window. "Just … tired."

Joe puts a firm hand on his wrist and squeezes it. "No, no, focus. I'm worried you have a concussion. No sleeping."

"I don't have a concussion," Barry mumbles, exasperated and exhausted. "I'm … just … really tired." He feels a hand on his forehead and scrunches up his nose, pushing it away. "I don't have a fever."

"The hell you don't. You're burning up."

They're driving, and Joe's focus returns to the road. Barry doesn't even know exactly when he drifts out, coming to with Joe's hand shaking his shoulder. "Hey, _hey_. Stay with me."

"They're nice people," Barry mumbles, cheek pressing against Joe's shoulder as the latter unbuckles him, half-drags, half-picks him up out of the car. "They called Joe."

. o .

Lying flat on his back on a soft surface, Barry says again, "They called Joe."

A firm, calloused hand slips into his own and squeezes. "Stay with us, buddy."

"DeVoe…" But he loses the train of thought and slips into oblivion before he can finish it.

. o .

Consciousness fades into focus for Barry.

"…sure there isn't any evidence?"

"His blood work is clean, Joe. No barbiturates, opiates, benzos, narcotics of any kind. And his blood sugar was really low, he – might have just passed out."

"Bullshit."

"I'm with Joe, my Spidey senses are off the charts on this one."

"Look, I want to nail these guys just as badly as you do, but – what are we going to charge them with?"

Someone snaps their fingers. It's loud. "Attempted kidnapping."

A scoff. "Again: what proof? Barry was in violation of their restraining order."

"I don't care. I don't _care_ , I just want to get these sons of bitches before they lay another hand on any of my kids."

"I know." A sigh. "We'll figure something out. Right now, the most important thing is…"

. o .

Barry blinks up at a cream-colored ceiling. "Hey." Cisco squeezes his shoulder. "Hey, buddy. You finally back with us?"

Barry's mouth tastes like cotton. "How long was I out?" he asks. His voice is so dry it hurts. Cisco hands him a Dixie cup full of water and a straw.

"Uh." Spinning his chair around, Cisco checks the clock. "Well. It's Friday?"

Barry chokes. " _What_?"

"Shouldn't have led with that, I understand now," Cisco says, wincing, as Barry struggles to a sitting position, coughing violently. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Wally and I have taken care of everything, and Iris is the best team leader in the whole world—"

"Iris – where is she?" Barry coughs, mouth against his sleeve. STAR Labs' sweater. It doesn't – it's not _right_ , but his head hurts, and it's easier to attribute it to nothing than pursue the anomaly.

"Right here," Iris announces, and Barry glances over at the doorway as she steps into the room, crossing the floor and wrapping her arms around him. "Don't ever do that again. Ever," she says.

He presses his forehead against her shoulder, fisting the back of her shirt in his hand, and says nothing.

"I'll let you guys have the room," Cisco says, patting Barry's knee once. The door clicks shut behind him.

Iris knits her hand in the hair at the back of his head, holding onto him. Her heartbeat is close enough for Barry to hear it, beating fast. "I was so scared," she admits.

"Cisco okay?" Barry asks, and he can't understand _why_ , but it's pressing at his chest, _burning_ at his chest.

He can almost hear Iris' frown. "Why wouldn't he be?" she asks slowly. Her fingers scratch gently at his neck. It's hypnotic, lovely. "We've been worried about you. What do you remember?"

He buries his face against her collar, inhaling and exhaling slowly. There's panic still seated in his chest over the simple act, but he can't place that, either. "I – I went to talk with the DeVoes, and …" He frowns. "I don't know. I guess I passed out?"

She sighs. He feels it, tracing his hands apologetically against her back. "Okay," she says, but he can tell she's disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, and she squeezes the base of his neck gently.

"No, it's not your fault," she assures. She sits on the bed and he leans back to look at her. She's a little fuzzy around the edges and the throbbing in his head makes him grimace, close his eyes. "What'd they do to you?" she murmurs, reaching up to brush his cheek, and he's surprised to feel the rasp of stubble. "God, I wanna put them away. Dad's furious. Understandably."

"I don't …" He shakes his head a little, leaning his cheek against her palm when she cups his face in one hand. He closes his eyes. Exhales.

She cradles his head in both hands, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk later."

He wants to tell her that he's up, he's ready for it, but consciousness is a rope slipping through his fingers, and it's gone before he realizes it's being pulled away.

. o .

"Mr. Allen. A surprise."

Still a little sleep-heavy, Barry approaches the stage slowly. "What did you do to me?" he asks quietly.

DeVoe, still in his chair, still infuriatingly human, smiles. "Accusations, this late, Mr. Allen? I had hoped your strategy might advance."

"I know you did something." Barry climbs the steps with an exhausting effort. "You can either tell me now, or I can force it out of you later." His eyes flash gold, he knows, because DeVoe's smile loses its edge. It flattens. His own expression mirrors it. "So. What's it gonna be?"

"You should reconsider your threat," DeVoe says, lifting his phone. Barry stares at the recording without blinking. "Unless you want to lose more than your job."

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Barry takes a step forward. "Try me," he bites.

DeVoe wheels forward, pausing mere feet away from him. "Are you sure it was not all in your head?" he asks, tapping his own temple with a finger demonstratively.

Barry shakes his head, trying to clear it, but there's something irresistible about the weight of DeVoe's words. "No," he says. His hands are shaking a little. There's fear rising in his gut, and he retreats a few steps. One hand creeps up to his chest, aching for the panic button under the emblem of the suit, but it isn't there, because his suit isn't there, either. "No."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Allen, but I must be leaving. I have a wife to return home to." He smiles. "As do you."

Barry doesn't think, just Flashes forward, fisting DeVoe's shirt. He expects pain and finds human frailty instead underneath those cold, calculating eyes. He releases DeVoe slowly, and nothing changes. His head is spinning. He takes a step back.

 _He feels more dangerous than all of them._

He takes another step back. He can almost see – a world of colors, exhausting, overwhelming colors, and his own darkness, his absence of chaos. The hungriness of DeVoe's gaze is unsettling.

"I will get what I want, Mr. Allen.

"No matter how many times we must revisit this scene."

Barry jerks awake on the STAR Labs' hospital bed.

Slowly, he brings his hands up to clutch his head. Iris appears in the doorway, frowning and asking if he's okay.

He can find no response.

 _I think I'm losing my mind._

And he has no way of knowing when the dream begins and the reality ends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes** : Hello, friends! I had no intentions of making this a multichapter, but, when the muse strikes! Fair warning: this chapter is *dark.* If the words "buried alive" are unpalatable, I welcome you to stop at the first chapter and carry on your merry way.

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Allen."

Staring at the wood inches from his face, Barry breathes shallowly. He glides his palms down the walls on either side of him, heart pounding. Flexing his feet, he finds wood underneath them. Closing his eyes, he tries not to hyperventilate. "DeVoe," he breathes. "What is this?"

"A preview of another life," DeVoe responds. There is a small communicator clipped to the top of the coffin, left-hand corner. It projects DeVoe's clipped, crisp voice. "Another taste of infinity."

"I'm going to kill you," Barry grits out, reaching up to press his hands against the lid. "I swear to God, DeVoe—"

"Make no declarations you do not intend to honor," DeVoe dismisses. "You have fifty minutes of air remaining. I would not waste any of them on false promises."

"I'm going to kill you," Barry repeats, but it gasps from him. He reaches for the panic button on his suit, hand shaking hard, and finds – a blank slate where an emblem should be. For a moment, his heart stops. His panic button – it's _gone_.

"To put your mind at ease: I removed the tracker, too. You are quite alone, Mr. Allen."

Raw, unfiltered panic creeps into Barry's words: "I get it. Fear. Fear is a powerful motivator."

"Fear is another deterrent," DeVoe drones. "It keeps one from entering the arena. It wrests courage from the martyr's step, steel from the savior's outstretched hand. It quenches even the most passionate appetites for adventure. Fear is the end, Mr. Allen. This is what the end looks like. A box in the ground with six feet of earth overhead."

Barry's heart wants to beat out of his chest. "I can phase," he says aloud, needing to speak. The darkness and silence and awareness that he has barely six inches of clearance on any side will do him in if he does not try to find normalcy in the situation. "I can phase through the box."

"Try," DeVoe encourages pleasantly. "You will find the earth does not yield like concrete."

It sends a chill through Barry's chest. He tries and fails to suppress it. The suit's thermo-regulators are all set to cold – not freezing, not enough to distract him – but he shivers in place. The box rattles. DeVoe simpers, "Will you not even _try_? That was your motto." Intoning, he drawls, "'I _have_ to _try_.'"

When he says it, there is a deadly finality to the words, like an executioner's last remarks. Barry keeps his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, but it only makes the box seem closer on all sides. "What do you want?" he asks. His voice comes out in a whisper. He cannot find even the anger to make it louder. "What do you want with me?"

"I told you, Mr. Allen. I want your Speed Force. I know you will not surrender it without ample provocation. The first phase is simple: I must threaten your family. The second phase is poetically just: I must threaten _you_." A glass full of ice clinks as he pauses for a drink. It makes Barry feel sick to his stomach, knowing that DeVoe is sufficiently at ease to _lounge_. "Would you prefer to drown or suffocate?" DeVoe asks idly. "It is your choice."

It's an impossible choice, a choice so callous it is not a choice at all. Barry exhales harshly. His head begins to spin. "I would prefer to live," he grunts.

"Then we share a mutual desire. This experience will elucidate my circumstances to you in a way that words alone cannot." With an air of levity at odds with his words, he proclaims lightly, "I will see you in forty-eight minutes."

Barry waits, but there is no further response. "DeVoe," he tries, voice rasping in the silence. Then, louder: " _DeVoe_." He opens his eyes, but the scene has not shifted. The sight of wood overhead tips his anxiety into overdrive; he begins gasping despite himself, twisting inside the box, straining for freedom. He can't think straight, can barely see anything – has nothing whatsoever to protect him from the overlying earth if he even manages to move the immovable lid above him.

"Cisco," he pleads, panicking. " _Cisco_. Please." Gasping, he repeats it: "Please, please, please."

Hauling in the deepest breath he dares, desperate to throw off the panic gnawing at his chest, he focuses on vibrating in place. He succeeds, making the box rattle, and tries to let the effort distract him. It offers warmth, an insulating blanket of Speed in the coldness and darkness and silence. Upkeeping it for three seconds, he waits until he is confident that he will not lose focus before pressing on the wood with both hands.

His palms pass through the wood. He ignores the chill taste of earth beyond, surprisingly cool even through the insulating Speed provided by his vibrating hands. He lets his forearms disappear, his elbows vanish. His breath begins to quicken again, his vision losing focus – he has never tried it like this, horizontal and entombed. With barely enough air to breathe, let alone _Speed_ , and he yanks both arms back just in time to stop vibrating.

With a thin whine, he reaches up to press his palms against his forehead. _Wait it out_ , he counsels, but he can already feel the air thinning. _Just wait it out. He needs you alive_.

Does he? If DeVoe is so smart, then maybe – it's an absurd thought, but maybe he doesn't _need_ Barry alive. If there are an infinite number of solutions to every problem and DeVoe has thought of them all, then he must know a way around Barry's existence. _He's toying with you. He's gonna kill you_. He tries to suppress the thought and fails. _Don't let him in your head._

A terrible, hysterical sound rises in his throat. _He's already in my head_.

Daring to try again, he shoves his arms through the coffin all at once, and before he can second guess himself he sits upright, a zombie coming to life, and finds himself surrounded by damp, cold, unmoving earth, shifting and warping and _responding_ to his movements as concrete does not, never have, a living being with an opinion, and he buries himself back inside the coffin only to have a small avalanche of dirt follow him.

Screaming in frustration and fear, he can't make himself quiet down for a long time, for minutes, it seems, head spinning when he finally finds himself still alive, still _breathing_ , in this too-dark-too-small-too- _cold_ space. He dislodges the dirt immediately on top of him with a great effort, packing it along the sides. He wants to throw up, but he doesn't dare.

Whimpering once, a small, irrepressible sound, he thinks, _C'mon. C'mon_.

Six vertical feet between himself and freedom.

 _Unless DeVoe was lying_.

He's six-two, tall enough to _stand_ and find freedom, but – he has to be able to stand.

 _Come on. Three_.

He begins to vibrate in place, ignoring the black spots in his vision.

 _Two_.

He kicks up the pace, demanding as much as he can possibly muster up.

 _One_.

He pushes off as hard as he can, but his haste is his undoing – when he meets the wall of earth he panics, slows down, and all at once there is earth everywhere.

Drowning in dirt, he kicks and claws and tears his way through the heaviness overlying him, until suddenly there is void space above him, but even that he cannot grasp, he must use the earth to pry and haul and surge and his chest is going to explode, but somehow – somehow he breaks the surface and finds himself straining further, unable to breath, spitting dirt and coughing, wheezing, still clawing for air that won't come.

He finally pries himself away from the hole he has ripped through the earth, hacking into the grass. It doesn't matter that he's free, he can't breathe, _he can't breathe_ , and it's locking up in his throat until a sudden electrifying force surges through the suit and he _heaves_ , vomiting dirt and hints of blood.

"A heroic choice," DeVoe muses nearby, and Barry cannot look at him, coughing uncontrollably. His face is on fire, exertion and panic lunging to the forefront of his emotions. He can't even care that DeVoe is near, was near this entire time – all he knows is that he has to get air he has to get air he has to get air—

A second kick to the chest, and the world washes out.

. o .

Barry jerks upright, heart beating so fast it hurts.

The box, the box, oh God, the box –

"Barry?" It's Wally. What's Wally doing here, why is Wally here, where the _hell_ is here? He feels the softness underneath him, the – STAR Labs' gurney. His hands tremble. "Hey. It's okay." Wally takes a seat on the bed next to him. "Bad dream?"

A hand rises to clutch his throat. When he doesn't speak, Wally rests a hand on his knee. "Listen, I can get Cisco—"

Barry latches onto his wrist with sudden ferocity, and he knows he must look wild because he _feels_ wild when he rasps, "Don't move."

Stilling, an unusual state for a speedster who burns as bright and hot as him, Wally complies.

For the better part of a minute, they sit in perfect stillness, silence. Barry's heart pounds. His head hurts. _God_ , his head hurts. "It's okay," Wally says tentatively, squeezing his knee. "You're safe here."

"He – he –" He can still taste the dirt in his mouth, the dirt in his _lungs_ , the coffin underhand, the sound of DeVoe's ice clinking in his glass. "He was here. He was here." He lets go of Wally's hand, running a hand over his chest for the dirt he knows must be there, but there's just a STAR Labs' sweater over it.

No. No, no, no, no – it was real, it _happened_ , he's had dreams like premonitions and premonitions like dreams but _never_ one like that, nothing approaching the realism, the terror, the –

He's hyperventilating, and he knows it, but he can't slow down because he only has forty-eight minutes of air left, how many did he waste lying there in the coffin, screaming? How much does he have left now, how many minutes, how many minutes, when will he wake up from this to the box overhead and the box underneath and the box all around and the impossible choice to make?

Wally gets up, but Barry can't move, locked into place, terrified to bring the walls crumbling down, to shatter the illusion. Two someones enter the room, but he can only see the darkness closing in on all sides, the darkness he dares not acknowledge, and he screams and hunches in half because he's so scared he doesn't know how to feel human.

"Barry? Barry, it's okay. It's me. I'm here, honey," Iris tells him, and he wants to shut up, to settle down, but there is _earth_ in his mouth, his chest and lungs, where it should not be, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe—

He Flashes away, but the crushing sensation follows him, and he runs the only place he can think of to escape it.

. o .

Barry crashes into the living room and overturns DeVoe's wheelchair, but even the impact does not cause DeVoe to make a sound. Marlize shouts in alarm, but DeVoe cautions solemnly, "It is all right, Marlize." He sizes Barry up. "Sixteen minutes remaining. Not terrible."

"I'll kill you," Barry rasps, reaching up to throttle him. DeVoe does not resist, but Barry's hands are shaking too hard to grip properly, scrabbling for purchase as DeVoe gazes at him with fire in his eyes. The snarl builds in Barry's chest without breaking, tears misting his vision as the choking terror crowds out the anger, crowds out everything but freedom, and when he snarls again it is weak: "I'll kill you."

"Make no promises you do not intend to keep," DeVoe sneers. His hand punches upward into Barry's chest, just below the sternum, and Barry's eyes widen as the dart sinks in. "You are so _vulnerable_ ," DeVoe tells him. With a careless shove, he topples Barry onto his side. He extends his arms and Marlize helps him up. Barry's vision begins to spin. His chest constricts slowly. No. No no no no no no no— "You asked for a fight. I will grant you one." DeVoe reclaims his chair and shakes down his sleeve, checking his watch. "Fifteen minutes."

Barry tries to sit up, but he can't get any of his limbs to cooperate. He can't press the panic button on his suit because he isn't wearing his suit, he can't run because he can't stand, he can't move, he can't breathe, _he can't breathe_ –

A pair of arms slip underneath him and he disappears in a brilliant Flash of yellow light, but his head is spinning too much to respond, to fight it.

"What happened, what happened?" Wally chants, setting him down in the Cortex, but Barry just wheezes and fumbles uselessly for Wally's suit because _are you okay_ won't stop running through his mind, he knows DeVoe won't hesitate to hurt him –

His vision cuts out all at once as his world goes belly-up, and he sinks underneath the dark, unyielding earth.

. o .

"… can't go on. His cortisol levels are still increasing."

"There's gotta be something we can give him."

"His metabolism is burning through everything I try. And the fever is burning through the rest."

"Cait, please."

"I want to help him _just_ as badly as you do, Cisco, but – I don't think this is physical."

. o .

Barry blinks slowly at the figure beside him, watching her take his blood. "I'm not sick," he tells her, trying to pull his arm back, but she gently holds it down.

"I know," she says, but he's already fading.

Slurring, he insists, "I'm not sick."

. o .

The room is so _hot_.

Barry tries to push the blankets off his chest, but they don't budge, locked in place. His breath catches, and he scrabbles helplessly at the edges of the blankets, _get them off_ ringing through his veins until it is audible, a high, terrified sound that culminates in the sudden influx of cold air as the blankets vanish. He shivers. Breathes in quickly, out faster. In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out—

"Easy," a familiar voice says, and a big warm hand cups his face. "I've got you, son. I've got you."

He struggles towards the sound of the voice, pillowing his head against a big warm chest, clutching at the shirt underhand. "It's all right," the same person rumbles, close enough he can hear it. A hand strokes down his back soothingly. "Slow down."

He clutches the shirt, unable to move, shaking hard. _We're not safe here._ He tries to verbalize it, but all that comes out is a thin noise. "I can't – I can't move, I can't breathe, I'm gonna die down here, I—"

The hand circles his back, pressing comfort against his shirt and skin beneath it. "You're not gonna die," the voice promises. "I promise, Bar. I promise."

 _Make no promises you do not intend to keep_ , he thinks, and sinks back under the waves.

. o .

The surface underneath him rumbles with speech: "This has to stop."

"I know." Caitlin. She takes his hand and he tugs it back, huddling back against the surface closest to him. "Barry?"

"Please," he whispers, feeling an arm around his back, squeezing lightly. "Please, please, please, please."

"You're okay," Joe – _Joe_ – tells him, again with the rumbling speech quality. "You're safe."

"I – I was drowning," he gasps, voice rugged and deep. "I was drowning."

"Hallucinations are common with fevers as high as yours," Caitlin explains delicately. "You've been – out of it, for several days, Barry."

His stomach twists. "It happened." He struggles to sit up, even as Joe's shoulder invites him to stay lying down. His head throbs once. He wants to throw up. "Joe, I – I can't stop him. I can't stop him, I can't – I can't even get _near_ him, he – he's always ahead, he's planned for everything, he knows – he knows how long it'll take for me to drown –"

Joe rubs his back. "Bar, Bar. You're panicking."

He laughs. It sounds hysterical to his own ears. Struggling upright, he manages a sharp, "Of course I'm panicking, Joe!" He feels hot and shaky, but he shoves the blankets off, struggles to his feet. "He tried to kill me!"

"Hey, buddy," Cisco says, blocking the exit. "Why don't we slow down a second, eat something?"

"I can't eat." Barry fists both hands in his hair. "I can still taste it, I can still _taste_ the dirt." Sobbing, he insists, "I can still taste it." He kneels on the ground, and he knows he must look like an animal, a wounded, terrified animal, but he couldn't spot the difference between himself and one if he tries. "I don't want to fight him anymore, I don't want to fight him."

"You don't have to," Cisco says, again in that soothing hey-buddy tone. He steps closer. Barry presses back against the gurney, shaking his head, stomach turning.

"I'm gonna throw up," he warns weakly.

Someone shoves a plastic bin into his hands. He heaves, but nothing comes up. Tears trickle down his face. Cisco crouches in front of him. "Should I get Iris?" he asks. "She's – it's late, but – I'll get her," he decides, reconsidering mid-statement. Barry sobs, clutching the bin. Cisco pats his shoulder. "One second."

He disappears, and Barry hugs the bin to his chest, aching for reprieve, for an emotional purge that isn't coming, the fear and shock and horror hanging on despite the – hours, days? – between him and the earthen tomb. He hugs it until his fingers go numb, and a hand settles on his shoulder and he looks at Iris with blank eyes.

"I think I'm losing my mind," he whispers, and she squeezes his shoulder gently and says nothing.

. o .

"We can find a way," Barry says, taking a seat in the front row of the auditorium. The fever is gone, but even ensconced in the warmth of one of his old, well-worn shirts, he doesn't feel better. "To save your life," he clarifies, folding his arms across his chest. "That's still your goal, isn't it?"

"My goals are beyond your understanding," DeVoe says with perfect recitation.

Barry shivers. "Please," he says. "I'm – I'm begging you. I'm _begging_ you. I'll do anything you want. Just stop with the mind games."

DeVoe erases the board. "I have already examined every possibility, Mr. Allen."

"We'll look _again_ ," Barry says firmly. "My team and I—"

"Have an admirable operation, but they do not need you to continue it."

Something dark sinks its claws into Barry's chest. "Excuse me?"

"You were gone for six months," DeVoe says, polishing off the board. "Do you really think you are indispensable?" Then, in a dry tone, he allows, "I will let you live. I have no reason to incur that backlash." He finishes up the second board, drawling, "I will finally be strong enough to overcome this ailment." Turning slowly, he asks, "Have you enjoyed your taste of it?"

"It's awful," Barry says, pressing his hands to his forehead. "But this – spreading the _pain_ , you're not helping anyone—"

"It is a necessary sacrifice," DeVoe cuts in, folding his hands on his lap. "My tactics needed to be forceful. Now you know what I can do." His smile is positively wicked. "Do you need more proof?"

Barry shakes his head, but DeVoe presses on. "I can make it so you will not even remember what I show you," he says, gliding down the ramp. Barry doesn't move, chest rising shallowly as DeVoe approaches. "Pain that is not remembered is pain experienced solely by the experiencing self, not the remembering self. That is the duality of the mind: conscious and unconscious. Our lives are ruled by the way we remember them. That is what haunts us." He pauses mere feet away, prodding, "Was it real, or did it simply _feel_ real?"

Rising from his seat, Barry towers over DeVoe. It doesn't make him feel stronger. If anything, he feels less stable. "I know what I felt," he says in a low voice.

"You think you know what you felt," DeVoe taunts. "You _think_ you know. It is amazing how the mind can deceive us."

"So that's your plan," Barry huffs, stepping back involuntarily when DeVoe glides a step closer. "Drive me insane."

"No." DeVoe shakes his head. "I would prefer to keep you sane. The alternative would be a measure of last resort." Looking him up and down, he says dismissively, "I am not above putting my needs before yours, but I am an academician. I would like to keep things civil."

"You _buried_ me _alive_ ," Barry snaps, a hand sliding up to rub his throat reflexively. "What's _civil_ about that?"

DeVoe arches an eyebrow. "Did I, though?" he asks coolly.

Barry feels it like an icicle in his spine, twisting and sharp. "No," he says, but there's no breath behind it. "You can't fool me."

"I fooled you once, Mr. Allen," DeVoe says, brushing invisible dust from the arm of his chair. "Or do you not remember what transpired at our first meeting, once you _knew_ who I was?"

Barry hesitates. "I – I passed out in your study."

DeVoe's smile is all shark-teeth. "Are you certain?"

A cold sweat breaks out on Barry's neck. "Yes," he says.

DeVoe taps his chin. "Then this will be fun to reiterate." He reaches idly into a compartment on the chair and removes a massive syringe. "I am not omnipotent," he admits, "but I do not need to be. I only need to be smarter than those who oppose me." Leveling a cool look at Barry, he declares, "You oppose me. In response, my darling wife and I created this. We were inspired by your friends."

"What is it?" Barry asks, mouth dry.

"A Speed-suppressing serum." With a modest shrug, he adds, "There are a few modifications. A fast-acting paralytic to ensure you cannot burn through it, a touch of poison to further set your immune system back." Eyeing him, DeVoe adds, "It is extremely potent. You should not be so far from your friends, Mr. Allen. The next round of hallucinations is imminent."

Barry's voice nearly croaks. "What?"

"It releases in staggered doses," DeVoe explains, tucking the syringe back into the underside of the chair like a paperweight, idle and unconcerned. "Decreasing doses, but … more doses, nonetheless." His smile is unfriendly. "You should not have entered my home again, Mr. Allen. You forced my hand. I had to protect myself. Speedsters are not easy creatures to get along with."

His words slur a little, but he tries to keep his message blunt, to the point: "Why are you doing this?"

DeVoe turns his chair away. "Remember this, Mr. Allen: the experiencing self and the remembering self are two different animals."

Barry reaches for his suit, for a panic button that is not there, and tries not to shake apart when his fingers grasp his shirt instead. "DeVoe," he says, but the man is already wheeling away. His breath comes in sharply; sweat breaks out on his forehead. " _DeVoe_."

Then a voice in his head simpers: _What else do you fear?_

. o .

Barry doesn't know what his experiencing self undergoes. His remembering self doesn't hold onto a damn thing. All he knows is that when he comes to, there are tear tracks on his face and his voice is just _gone_.

He's lying on the floor and hugging Iris around the middle, head pressed against her stomach, as she cards her fingers through his hair. He's still trembling faintly, his body overheating, compensating desperately for what it can't fix, but she doesn't lose her rhythm. Humming, she doesn't demand a response from him, and he offers none, provides no indication that whatever it was – whatever it was, it's _over_.

Perhaps, he thinks, wiped out and terrified for reasons unknown, it's better when he can't remember at all.

. o .

"It's still not traceable," Caitlin says, her frustration mirroring his own.

Barry sits on the edge of the gurney and regards her silently, incuriously, before closing his eyes and nodding.

"I'll keep trying," Caitlin promises, but he merely lies back on the gurney, turns onto his side, and buries himself underneath a blanket, shoving both selves far, far away.

. o .

Iris and he limp home.

Settling in is a quiet affair. He showers and curls up in bed, exhausted. She joins him some indefinite time later, and he tangles his fingers gently in her shirt, holding on. She rests a hand on his head. He exhales slowly.

"I'm scared," he admits, hugging her tightly, "to lose this. To lose _you_."

"You won't ever lose me," she promises. "We're going to fix this."

Barry inhales and exhales slowly. "How?"

Iris brushes his hair back from his forehead. It spikes a little in places. "Together," she says simply.

He hums, thinking about it – about Marlize and Clifford DeVoe, a seamless unit, working together for one goal.

 _One goal_.

" _You will make an extraordinary lightning rod._ "

He blinks slowly. "Iris," he says.

"Bar?" she replies, sounding concerned.

"I think … I think I know what he wants."


	3. Chapter 3

The vial of Speed rolls carelessly across the floor before coming to a halt beside the wheelchair.

"That's what you want, isn't it?"

Sitting in his study, a crackling fireplace warming the space, DeVoe deigns the bottle with a glance. "I do not want your Speed," he says dismissively. Reaching down carefully, he picks up the vial, turning it over in his hands. It is hot enough to burn, but DeVoe does not flinch. He looks Barry dead in the eye and smashes it on the ground.

Anger shoulders pain, fear, an amalgamation of emotions Barry dare not address around DeVoe, aside. "Then why? Why are you targeting me?"

DeVoe steeples his hands. "I want something you are not inclined to give me."

Barry Flashes forward, seizing the front of DeVoe's shirt and lifting him up. DeVoe levels him with a flat, unamused stare. "Tell me," Barry snaps.

"Oh, _Barry_ ," DeVoe simpers. The hairs on the back of Barry's neck stand; his hands begin to shake. "I already _have_."

Something red overtakes Barry's vision, and he throws DeVoe back hard. A loud _crack_ fractures the stillness, Barry's muscles seizing up in apprehension as DeVoe's head hits the coffee table and he goes perfectly still.

His ears ring. For a long moment – he doesn't know how long, the world just _stops_ – he cannot move. "Get – get up," he says at last, hands shaking, heart _pounding_. "DeVoe." Then, furious, he kicks the man's side, shouting, " _DeVoe!_ "

In slow motion, he hears the door break in; the officers swarm, a distraught Marlize visible in the front yard, shaking her head and explaining something he cannot discern. He looks down at DeVoe, sprawled like a broken doll, bleeding from the head, and sees himself kneeling over the body, clutching DeVoe's shirt and shaking it, _wake up_. His heartbeat quickens.

He should run, he needs to run, _run, Barry_ —

But the world snaps back into focus first, and before he can move there's an officer dragging him forcefully away from the unmoving figure on the floor.

Dry-mouthed, he begins, "No, no, I—"

"You have the right to remain silent," the officer barks, cuffing him. Daley, it's Officer Daley, he _knows_ Daley, they've worked cases together. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney—"

He hears distant sobbing. "I—I didn't know what to do, I saw him, and I called the police – please, my husband, I have to see him—"

Barry's stomach twists. He looks down at DeVoe. "I –" But he can't make a case, can't make sense of any of it, being hauled forcibly away, his rights pouring over deaf ears. He knows them by heart, and he wants to tell Daley that he doesn't need to recite them, _I know them, I'm a CSI_ , but Daley isn't holding him like he's Joe's kid – he's hauling him like a criminal, brisk, efficient, removed. Two other officers – Fennec, Lyle – box him in when he tries to pull out of Daley's grip because _no, no, no, this isn't right, I didn't—_

Someone shoves him down into the back seat of a police cruiser and he can't bring himself to fight it. The same officer clips him in, shutting the door firmly behind him.

There's an ambulance outside, EMTs outside, the whole yard filled with flashing red and blue lights, and Barry sinks low in his seat when he realizes that it's not – it's not a dream, or an illusion, it's _real_ , but he's still so desperate to wake up he twists the cuffs until they dig into his wrists hard.

 _Wake up, wake up, wake up_.

He reaches for the panic button on his suit, but it isn't there, because he isn't in his suit. He's in street clothes. Pressing his cuffed hands to his forehead, he feels a whine build up in his chest.

No. _No_. This isn't –

He sees the EMTs load DeVoe into an ambulance, an oxygen mask over his face, and feels a haze settle over the world. _He's alive_ , he thinks, and the white-hot relief is almost equal to the heart-pounding terror that sweeps over him as an officer –Lyle – assumes the driver's seat. He stares in wordless disbelief as Officer Emmett takes Marlize's testimony before she piles into the ambulance after her husband.

And then they are gone, and he lets reality slip through his fingers.

. o .

It almost feels like home – the grey walls, the morbid chill, the vacuum of human affection – but there's one thing _missing_.

His father isn't here.

Closing his eyes, he buries his face in his hands and doesn't request a phone call.

. o .

They find him – of course they find him, they always find him – but the only words he can say are, "I did it."

"Barry," Iris says forcefully, because he won't look at her, he _can't_ look at her. He feels dirty, unworthy to look at the woman who agreed to marry him when he has sunk to this low. She didn't marry _him_ ; she married the better version of him, the one that didn't stoop to attacking the bad guys preemptively –

 _He was torturing you_ , a rational corner of his mind that sounds a lot like Cisco tries to counsel. He thinks it's in his head, but he doesn't know where the line between reality and dream ends, and he doesn't care to discern it. He doesn't _care_ , even though a voice that sounds very real and very much like Cisco reassures firmly, "We'll figure this out. Okay?"

He stares at his hands. They took the cuffs off earlier, and the faint red marks are already gone. Cold sweat clings to his back and palms, but he knows it isn't fever. He wants to throw up, but there's nothing in his stomach. He's starving, literally starving, but they don't know he's The Flash, they don't know he needs to eat every three hours or his body collapses, but he doesn't tell them, either.

Shutting out his family's optimism, he leans his head against the wall and tries to feel the cold stone without thinking about the dirt underneath it.

God, he hates cages.

. o .

It all passes in a slow-moving blur.

He's pulled to his feet, told to stand, sit, stay, and he follows the motions obediently. It's cold everywhere, but no one else complains, so he keeps his mouth shut.

They take his mug shot. He doesn't see the picture, and he never wants to. Thinking about filling out the 'arrested' box on future employment forms with 'assault' makes him want to throw up, and it is only part of the story. 'Breaking and entering,' 'restraining order violation'—

When they put him back in his cell, he loses the battle with his stomach and dry-heaves into a toilet for hours.

Groaning softly, he leans back against the wall and thinks about the last time he was in prison. His head hurt then, too, badly enough that it made him break out into the same cold sweat that clings to his shirt now. His hair was spiked from running his hands through it in agitation, entire demeanor bleeding sickness, but he felt – not _good_ , but _better_ , when Joe held out his arm for him and let him nestle against Joe's side, safe and warm and protected.

He wants it so badly it aches, but he knows – he _knows_ he doesn't deserve it. Not this time.

. o .

Barry doesn't know how long he is in prison.

He's quiet and unobtrusive, refusing to bolster or smother his family's attempts to cajole him. He eats and sleeps and tries not to think about anything. He obeys the guards. He assimilates, compresses, resigns. He shuffles along endlessly through a maze of walls without end, and steps that do not lead to freedom, and cannot evade the ache in his chest.

Then, one – morning, evening, he doesn't know – Captain Singh himself arrives.

"Allen." Barry knows that tone. Obediently, he pushes himself up to his feet. He feels haggard, heavy, and boney at once.

He dares to meet Singh's eyes. "Captain," he replies.

The guard opens the gate. Barry frowns at them, wary, and unsettled. "The DeVoes are not pressing charges," Captain Singh explains in a tone that is unreadable. "Your employment with the CCPD has been terminated."

Barry cannot find his voice for a long moment, but when he does, there is only resignation in his tone: "I understand."

"Bail for the violation of your restraining order has been posted. You are free to go."

He steps cautiously towards the open door. "Captain," he begins.

Singh narrows his eyes. "You would do well not to speak, Mr. Allen," he says, and Barry obliges.

. o .

He takes the advice to heart.

After his official release, a long, tedious, teeth-grinding process, they all want to hug him, but he evades capture, keeping his head down and his mouth shut. He says, "I need some air."

Joe says, "I don't think that's a good idea right now, Bar."

But he shrugs out of the hand Joe puts on his shoulder and repeats firmly, "I need some air."

The second he is out of sight, he Flashes away.

. o .

For a time he just – runs.

Runs like it can purge him, like it can shake away the cloying feeling of guilt, the headachy awareness that he was wrongfully released, _I should be punished_ carrying in every footfall, in every staggered breath. He runs as far as he can, letting the lightning keep him warm in the brisk winter air. He runs until he runs out of breath, and then he slows, panting, folding over his knees. Blue breath crystallizes before him as darkness sinks into the space around him.

He collapses to his knees, shaking, and does not know the exact moment the real darkness claims him.

. o .

His face _hurts_.

That's the first thing Barry notices. The second is the – bone-cracking, jaw-aching cold sawed into his limbs. He can feel it, dragging him down, slowing him down. He pushes himself with sluggish freneticism to his feet, tripping over his limbs, struggling upright. Verticality eludes him; he stumbles and makes it halfway there before toppling back over. Every breath is short and sharp. He thinks, _This is a dream_.

But it doesn't suppress the burning urge to escape it, to escape the fire creeping down his arms. The stilted reluctance of his legs, refusing to carry him. He grunts in pain as he plants a hand that feels more ice than human against the ground. It's below freezing – he knows because it snows, and he knows because he cannot stop the tremors from coursing through him.

 _Shivering is good. Shivering means you're alive_.

One terrible step at a time, he forces himself back to the land of the living.

. o .

There's a nasal cannula under his nose.

Barry inhales and exhales slowly. The air flow is nice, comfortable. There's something warm and a little heavy draped across him, but he lets it lie on his chest without reaching for it. Incurious and content, he inhales and exhales slowly, and falls asleep again.

. o .

Iris says, "You can't go after him." She cups his face. It's stubbly, now. He feels a little wild, a little out-of-it, a little more Speed Force animal than human. "Not until we come up with a plan."

He tries and fails to speak. His voice is too heavy. It's been gone for a while. How many days has it been? No one wants to tell him, which means it's been at least a month. That would explain the snow. He doesn't check the calendar, doesn't check his phone, lives in a world unto himself. A world that is free from everything but the way he breathes, and the lightning under his skin, the only constants in his life that cannot be ripped away from him.

 _Lightning_ , he thinks, staring out the window at the falling snow.

" _I do not want your Speed._

" _I want your Speed Force_."

. o .

When Iris is asleep, he slips out of their apartment and disappears from the world, reappearing in front of the DeVoes' residence. He knocks on the door. DeVoe himself calls out, "One moment."

He pulls it inward. There is no hint of injury to his head, but Barry is struck by the passage of time when DeVoe's expression twists into a smile almost as tired as he is. "Exactly on time," he says, and invites Barry inside.

. o .

It's … easy. To channel that Speed Force animal within. To place a hand on DeVoe's neck and spirit them both away.

When the world disappears and they are surrounded by the storm, Barry looks out at the infinity materializing slowly around him. " _You want me to take you there? Okay. I will take you to the Speed Force._ "

" _And ensure I drown in eternity_."

DeVoe's claim resurfaces from some corner of his mind, but he doesn't acknowledge it, gazing in wonder at the ether yielding its secrets around him. The panorama takes his breath away, the slow appearance of uncountable stars fixing him to his place, watching as galaxies unfold above and around them, endlessly. It's beautiful. It's mesmerizing. It's _home_. He hadn't realized how much he ached for it, longed for it, _needed_ it, until he returned to it.

"It is … exquisite," DeVoe says aloud, and Barry knows for an instant that they share that taste of infinity. "Absolutely exquisite."

You Brought A Friend.

Barry turns slowly, keeping a hand on DeVoe's shoulder – standing beside him, now – and bowing his head to the Speed-tiger. "I did," he agrees, lifting his gaze and meeting the Speed-tiger's golden eyes. DeVoe follows his gaze and frowns.

The Speed-tiger saunters closer, unperturbed. What Would You Have Us Do With Him? the Speed Force asks. Golden claws flex at the end of massive paws.

Barry swallows. Reality begins to sink into this space, this space of perfect stillness that is his, and he aches with sudden intensity to banish DeVoe from his place. He cannot bring himself to say the words. _I need you to give him the gift that you gave me_. Instead, he tells DeVoe, "Hold onto me."

DeVoe does not question it, taking hold of Barry's sleeve. When Barry crouches down, the Speed-tiger prowls closer still, until they are eye-to-eye. He reaches out and brushes his fingers through fur too soft to fathom, too smooth and perfect to recreate in the reality beneath them, beyond them. He cradles the Speed-tiger's head in both hands, and presses his own forehead against its for a long, long moment.

He could live here, in this moment, its warm, consuming energy pouring over him, affirming what he has known forever: We Have Always Been Kin.

It feels like tearing out his soul to acknowledge the hand on his shoulder and say the words aloud: "I need you to save him."

The Speed-tiger presses its head more firmly against him. He can feel tears prickling at his eyes, but the emotion, stinging, painful, raw, does not come. It is impossible with the Speed Force so close to him, gentle, reassuring, and powerful at once. It Is Not In Our Nature.

"It's in mine," he replies, stroking its fur under one golden eye before slowly letting it go.

The Speed-tiger looks at him, unblinking, for a moment longer. Then it lunges upright, and rests heavy paws on DeVoe's shoulders. DeVoe stares at it; Barry rises, maintaining a grip on DeVoe's sleeve. He hears the Speed-tiger talking, but it is distant, not to him. DeVoe says, "I understand."

And slowly, the darkness becomes complete as the Speed-tiger fades from Barry's view. At first, he thinks the Speed Force has merely consolidated, disappeared, but then he hears DeVoe gasp before he lets out a laugh. "Wondrous," he announces, and Barry feels tears beginning to build in his chest but does not allow them to fall. The cold is branching outward, taking away the herculean strength he took for granted so readily, so immediately, so eagerly, as his mythical world fades around him. "Absolutely _wondrous_."

Then, with dizzying suddenness, the snowy world around them reemerges, the Speed Force vanishing entirely. Barry tumbles to his knees, the weight of the multiverse almost too much to bear on his own, after all this time. He breathes in and out slowly. He tries and fails to still his shaking hands. He knows, with punishing certainty, that he cannot run, and still he searches unconsciously for that constant.

DeVoe keeps a hand on his shoulder, and they vanish, and Barry is not even aware of the lightning he has come to know as completely his own, only knows that they are in the DeVoes' living room. Marlize looks at them and clasps her hand to her mouth, rushing forward and throwing her arms around her darling husband, standing tall and strong.

"I am _well_ again," he announces. Barry's knees tremble; he has to consciously keep his legs underneath him. Every ache, every prior offense pushed down out of sight by the lightning longs for acknowledgment. DeVoe clasps his shoulder, like they are still in the Speed Force, and he is the only tether keeping Barry alive. "Thank you, Mr. Allen," he effuses. " _Thank you_."

. o .

"Captain."

Singh looks up from his desk. "Shut the door," he orders immediately. Slowly – everything is slow, now – Barry complies. "Take a seat," he adds, gesturing at the chair in front of the desk. Barry acquiesces. "Talk," he says.

Barry rubs his jaw. It's not stubbly anymore – and now, when he shaves in the morning, it stays soft and smooth by evening. "I owe you the truth."

Singh's eyes narrow. "You just got out of prison. Do you really want to incriminate yourself?"

Barry doesn't blink. "I was The Flash."

Singh looks him up and down once. He waits for Barry to break, to confess that it was a terrible opener to a more meaningful conversation. When Barry doesn't, Singh wheels back slowly to his computer, typing for a moment and pulling up an image. He looks at it, and then at Barry, and says blankly, "You're The Flash."

Barry huffs. It's soft and humorless. "No. I was. I – gave it up."

"You saved my husband."

Barry blinks. "Yeah," he permits, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "It – it was part of the job."

Singh stares at him so intensely he has to look down. "The Flash worked one floor above me."

"Actually, my operations are at STAR Labs—"

Singh holds up a hand. "Halt."

Barry does.

Singh picks up his phone. Barry's world slows down for a moment, but it is only an illusion, because Singh dials in real time and says gruffly, "Detective West. My office." Narrowing his eyes at Barry, he adds, "Yes."

. o .

"Winn Schott," the New Guy announces, clasping his hand firmly. "You were in the paper."

Barry shakes his hand. "Charges were dropped," he says, dropping Winn's hand and sliding into his seat. It feels strange – wrong. Like he's been thrown back ten years, instead of just four. Four years, and everything changed. Seeing Kara's friend's doppelganger at CCPD doesn't even ruffle his feathers; he knew Winn existed on Earth-1, he just didn't seek him out.

Winn settles into the seat across from him. "Your dad was the murdering doc, wasn't he?" he asks, twiddling with a pen.

Feathers ruffled. "Wrongfully convicted. He was released."

"Ahhhhhhh."

. o .

On Friday night, Cisco parks himself on Barry's couch, drops a box of pizza on his lap, and pulls up his own Netflix account.

They watch movies until they fall asleep at three in the morning and it's almost good enough.

. o .

Another worknight, Barry grimaces and gingerly holds the wrapped towel full of ice to the underside of his bruising eye. "Tell me you got him."

"We got him," Cisco says in passing, pulling up the screen and beaming. Wally fist-bumps Barry, seated on a chair, before joining Cisco at the monitor.

 _Another heroic save for Kid Flash and Vibe_ …

"You fractured your zygomatic bone," Caitlin informs, handing him a couple pills. He downs them without a word, sighing and sinking back into the chair. "And you have a concussion. Take it easy."

He smirks humorlessly, closing his eyes. "No promises."

. o .

"I love what I can do. I have always enjoyed teaching, but creating these algorithms is the most rewarding thing I have ever done. They have the potential to improve and save _billions_ of lives. I can think of no more heroic venture than this one, and I am grateful to undertake it."

. o .

Standing on the rooftop at Jitters, Barry looks out at the city and aches to run so intensely he cannot _breathe_.

. o .

Lying next to him in bed, Iris strokes her thumb across his forearm. "You okay?"

He leans forward and kisses her. "Yeah," he says, but he can't meet her eyes, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. She shuffles closer, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He curls his arm around her shoulders.

"I love you," she tells him.

He presses his lips to her temple. "I love you, too," he says, but _love_ was a burn they could both feel, a lightning-warmth they both knew, and he can't help but feel they're both a little lost without it.

. o .

"You seem sad, Allen."

"I have one of those faces," Barry lies, standing at the sketch board.

Winn makes an mmhm sound. "You ever wanna talk, you know where to find me," he says, clasping Barry's shoulder before walking out of the lab.

It's eleven-fifty-two PM.

Barry closes his eyes, and is still standing in front of his sketch board at seven-thirty AM the next morning.

. o .

In his dreams, he can run.

He runs, and runs, and runs, and runs, endlessly, howling at the stars, overflowing with joy, so happy it almost hurts, chasing eternity. He loves eternity, loves the idea and the existence of a thing so much bigger than himself. He runs until his lungs should give out and still he never tires; he runs and understands his place in the cosmos.

He dreams _to_ run, escaping reality to find peace in the illusion.

. o .

Sitting in the front row in the auditorium, Barry dozes, head-in-hand, until DeVoe arrives. It's been a long week – without superspeed to compensate, every week has felt especially long, trying to fit more work into such short, immovable days – but he is willing to sacrifice a few precious moments to speak with the man.

DeVoe does not disappoint. One moment, the stage is empty; the next, the man stands in the center of the floor, arms extended, radiating joy. It's still a little jarring to see him standing. "Mr. Allen," he greets, in a calm, comfortable, welcome-to-my-home voice. "You look unwell."

Barry just watches him, unblinking. Hungering quietly for that Speed he can almost feel humming under DeVoe's veins, Speed which is more than an object, an _experience_ , an active communion with something far greater than either of them. He wonders, selfishly, if DeVoe can possibly appreciate it.

"You're a monster," he says at last, voice slow, like everything. "And I remember everything."

DeVoe Flashes, reappearing directly in front of him. He looks into Barry's eyes, soul-searching, and Barry doesn't shy from the challenge. "You are lying," he declares at last.

Barry leans forward in his chair. He feels heavy, vulnerable, next to the most powerful speedster alive, but he doesn't let it show on his face. "You kidnapped me. You _tortured_ me."

"I subdued you," DeVoe says coolly. "You were an intruder. You threatened _me_ first. Or do you not remember that?"

"I remember everything," Barry insists stubbornly. "I remember being _buried alive_. Because of you."

DeVoe leans casually back against the stage. "A particularly vivid hallucination."

"No." Barry shakes his head, refusing to believe it. Pressing forward, he insists, "No. It was real."

DeVoe Flashes again, standing dangerously close to him. Barry tenses. He can see the lightning in DeVoe's eyes, a former reflection of his own, but they're brighter than they should be, because they aren't a reflection at all. "Your strength is your undoing," he says at last. "I know what you have survived. I know what you _can_ survive. I knew it was not going to be easy to break down that iron will of yours." Reaching out, with casual but inexorable precision, he grabs the front of Barry's shirt and lifts him slowly into the air. "I have caused no lasting harm." His hand slides suddenly to Barry's throat, locking sharply in place. "That can _change_."

Barry locks his own hands around DeVoe's, but the strength in his hands is unmatchable. He feels dizzy with fear, straining unsuccessfully for the next breath.

Just when black spots begin to steal away his world, DeVoe releases him. He crashes to the floor, coughing and wheezing, clutching his throat. "You would be wise to stay away from me, Mr. Allen," DeVoe informs him. "I no longer have reason to play civil with you. And I know how to make you disappear." He saunters off towards the stage, still flushed with stolen power, utterly unconcerned.

Still coughing, Barry struggles to push himself upright. "I won't let this go."

DeVoe pauses mid-step, turning back to look at him. Barry blinks and yelps in pain when he lands hard on the floor, left arm twisting underneath him.

"You should," is all DeVoe says, zipping away again.

. o .

"He's smart, and he's fast," Barry says, wearing his suit for the first time in a long time, "but he's not invincible."

Cisco and Caitlin exchange a look. "What are you saying?" Wally asks. "You want us to go after DeVoe again?"

"We have to," Barry says. Looking around at his team – his team, thriving in his super-powered absence, _they do not need you_ – he finds a fire burning in his chest. "Or else we'll never be able to escape his control."

"How are we gonna stop him?" Wally presses.

Iris steps up to Barry. He holds out a hand; she intertwines their fingers. The warmth between them is almost familiar, almost right. _Soon_ , he thinks, and it's an exhilarating feeling, an electrifying feeling all on its own.

"We bring the Speed Force back on our side," is all she says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes** : Au revoir, my friends! This is the final chapter of _Mind Games_. I sincerely hope you enjoyed, and if you liked it, feel free to leave a review!

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Allen."

Without opening his eyes, Barry's fingers scrabble at the smooth floor underneath him. "DeVoe," he croaks, throat dry, head aching abominably. "What are you doing?" He blinks and grimaces at the green light, pushing himself upright. "Why am I here?"

"You are here because I have reconsidered my magnanimity." Barry sways on his feet, struggling to stay upright. "A preemptive strike can be instructive," DeVoe continues. Barry looks around, but he cannot find DeVoe. His chest aches with fear. He backs up towards the nearest green panel. "I know what you and your team are up to," DeVoe adds. Barry halts. He slides a hand up to his chest reflexively. He still has his suit on, but there is no emblem. No panic button. "Tell me, Mr. Allen: what else do you fear?"

Something hot flashes down his back. He says in a low voice, "I don't fear anything from you."

DeVoe appears instantly in front of him, eyes burning gold. " _Wrong answer_." He stabs something sharp with bruising force against Barry's shoulder, and pain ignites at the spot. "You should fear what I can do to you and your family," he says.

Barry sinks to the floor, unable to stand. Tension locks the muscles down in his left arm; paralysis creeps across his chest. His next breath is thin and heavy, vexed by his frozen lungs. He reaches up with numb hands to grasp at the collar of his suit.

Effortlessly, DeVoe grabs him by the throat and hauls him upright. Barry's feet brush ineffectually at the floor. "You gave me _everything_ ," DeVoe whispers. "You gave me your Speed Force and all it entailed, an entire multiverse of opportunities."

Barry cannot respond, but he still digs his nails into DeVoe's hands, instinctively seeking to unlatch the grip. "That will not work," DeVoe says coolly.

All at once, he staggers, releasing Barry. Crashing into the floor, Barry cannot move at all. Darkness occludes his field of view, but he can hear DeVoe cry out, and feels something like satisfaction rush across his chest. _They found me._ The facility goes completely dark.

There is a tree-cracking sound, a slow, ominous splintering _boom_ that branches outward from the point of impact. DeVoe snarls, but powerless in the face of the dual attack, he does not last when a bright streak of yellow light sweeps in for the final knockout blow.

The lights do not return, but Barry feels someone crouch down beside him after an indeterminate time. He tries to reach up a hand to squeeze their shoulder, to congratulate them, but his hand will not flex, and his arm will not move. Gasping for air that will not come, he cannot voice his approval of their actions.

Heavy arms slide under his back and knees, picking him up, and then the darkness is gone, replaced by the blinding light.

He doesn't feel them try to revive him, doesn't feel the last breath wheeze out of him as darkness and silence close in again, doesn't panic when—

. o .

9:59 PM, **January 23, 2018**.

Barry Allen dies.

. o .

 _8:04 AM,_ _ **December 19, 2017**_ _._

 _"_ _I need you to erase my memory."_

 _Cisco raises both eyebrows, sipping on a blue smoothie. "What?"_

 _"_ _I need you to erase my memory," Barry repeats. "Before this moment. I can't remember telling you about this."_

 _"_ _Why?" He slurps slowly. Harry snatches the cup from his hands._

 _"_ _Because DeVoe can't know what we plan. And if I don't know what you're planning—"_

 _"_ _DeVoe can't read you." Cisco takes the cup back and nods. "Okay. All right." Nodding to himself, he walks over to his tablet on the worktable, typing away. "Ever since evil you mentioned it was gonna be useful, I've been working with the cerebral inhibitor calibration. It shouldn't destroy your memory, but—uh, the engineering side of me is kind of freaking out that we're not testing it first."_

 _Barry's voice is low. "Honestly, Cisco? It's a risk I'd be willing to take."_

 _Cisco looks up from his tablet. "You gonna tell Iris?"_

 _Barry smiles. It's the first sincere one in weeks. "I don't mean to wound your ego, but I told her hours ago. I wouldn't be here if I didn't already know she was … tolerant, of the idea._ "

. o .

10:06 PM, **January 23, 2018**.

"You ready, big guy?" Cisco asks, slapping the clip with the tether onto Wally's palm.

Wally exhales harshly. "No pressure," he says, hand flexing on the frozen shoulder underneath it. Barry's been formally dead for – seven minutes? It feels like forever.

"You get lost, things go south, you press that, we'll pull you out," Cisco promises, tapping his own palm demonstratively. "We're not gonna lose two people."

Wally nods once stiffly. "If it doesn't listen?"

Iris steps up, adjusts the sleeves of the suit a little. "It will," she assures.

He looks into her eyes, nodding once. Inhaling deeply. "Okay." He tightens his grip on Barry's shoulder. God, it's _cold_. Can you even pull someone back from the dead like this? He doesn't know, doesn't want to be the guy to try, but – in a room full of Central City's finest, he's the only speedster.

"Okay," he repeats, and then he's letting the world fall into that place of stillness, everything slowing down, down, down.

In a blaze of yellow light, they vanish.

. o .

 _1:08 AM,_ _ **December 19, 2017**_ _._

" _He can read minds. He can manipulate the space around him. He can algorithmically predict my location before he can even see me. He can filter through an exponential number of solutions before I've thought of one. He's smarter – he's got the home field advantage, he struck first. He's been so far ahead of us that we aren't even playing the same game."_

 _Lying in bed with him, draped across his chest, Iris rubs her thumb against Barry's chest over his heart. She talks to his shoulder. "We can't play the same game," she surmises._

 _He shakes his head. He's almost too tired to have this conversation – and he can still taste the dirt in his mouth, he's never gonna be able to erase that memory, real-or-not-real – but he can't risk losing the thread. "He has everything he needs to win, but – he's dying. He'll lose by default if he doesn't act soon. He's on the clock. He knows that he has to change the game to survive."_

 _Iris is quiet for a moment. "He has to give us the home field advantage."_

 _He doesn't nod, paranoid that there are cameras, but he does squeeze her waist gently. "They know the Speed Force on paper. We know the real thing. I need to get him out of his comfort zone."_

 _"_ _He'll see a trap coming," Iris warns._

 _Barry strokes her back. "Mmhm. But he'll go with my lead – he has to, he can't access it any other way. He has to think he's forced me into compliance. He has to secure a win.."_

 _"_ _I don't like the sound of that, Bar."_

 _He shuffles out from under her and kisses her, kneeling up so he's framing her. "No, I know," he agrees, kissing her shoulder, speaking almost to her collar. "I'm not really looking forward to it, either, but It's gotta get worse before it gets better. He's gotta think I wouldn't dream of mutiny. He's gotta threaten you until I can't think about defying him."_

 _She tangles a hand in his hair as he trails idle kisses across her jaw. "I_ really _don't like the sound of that," she murmurs, scratching his neck._

 _"_ _I will not let him hurt you," he tells her, lightning burning with promise. "Neither will the Speed Force." He manages a faint smile against her collar. "It loves you as much as I do. It's just not as verbal about it – which works to our advantage because even DeVoe can't read something that doesn't_ think."

 _She sighs, but keeps her hold on him. He can tell he's winning her over; she's relaxing, despite the gravity of the conversation. "We've gotta let him think he's won to win," she finishes._

 _He kisses her jaw. "Mmhhm."_

 _She frames his face with both hands, holding it so she can look into his eyes. He can see the faintest reflection of gold in her own. He smiles, even though it aches in his chest, the fear and pain and awareness that it is going to have to get a_ lot _worse before it gets better. "What's our next move?" she asks._

 _He smiles a little, rueful and triumphant. "DeVoe gave me the idea. He's winning because he knows how to manipulate the experiencing self and remembering self."_

 _"_ _Those are real?" she asks, tracing her hands down his sides._

 _He bows his head to kiss her shoulder. "Mmhm." Voice low, barely audible, he explains, "The experiencing self is the here and now, what we live." Another kiss. "The remembering self is … everything else, how we think about our lives, past and future. We don't really think about them much, because we assume they're the same thing – but memories are easy to manipulate, and most of our experiences are gone so quickly it's like they were never there. We are our remembering selves."_

 _She turns his head gently, kissing him. "So, the experiencing self doesn't matter?" she asks, letting her nails graze his neck. "If it's so fleeting."_

 _He shivers, shaking his head the tiniest bit. "The experiencing self is just as important. It_ is _our reality. The remembering self is our perception of reality. If you divorce the two – close off the remembering self and live on autopilot; or transfix on the remembering self, letting it overrule reality – then perception and reality starts to fracture."_

 _She runs the back of her hands down his sides. "He's manipulating your memories."_

 _He hums. "He has to be. I can't—" His throat tightens; for a moment, he cannot speak at all. She squeezes his hip. He dares to exhale. "He lets me remember enough to know that he's controlling my perception of reality," he says at last. "I have to beat him to the punch. I have to manipulate him by manipulating myself."_

 _She frowns. "You want to erase your memory?"_

 _"_ _Hopefully not all of it?" She pinches his side lightly, he nuzzles her shoulder. "It's the only way to fight him," he murmurs. "He's dying; he doesn't have time to work the entire team. He can work me, and make me think that you're in imminent danger, that_ I'm _in imminent danger." His voice cracks. She flattens a palm over his lower back, brushing her thumb against his skin. He settles his weight a little more on her, guarding as much as seeking comfort. "He's dangerous. He's relentless. We have to stop him before he gets smart enough, or desperate enough, to stop playing a game we can follow."_

 _She slides her hand up and down his back. "Are you sure you want to do this?"_

 _He exhales shortly, an almost-laugh. "No."_

 _She sighs against him. "Good." She knits a hand in his hair. "I don't like this."_

 _"_ _I know. I don't, either."_

 _"_ _You won't remember this conversation?"_

 _He shakes his head a little. "I can't. I have to be convinced that my whole reality is being manipulated by him, or he'll change the game." He smiles slightly without humor. "I trust you to manipulate my memory more than him."_

 _She tugs him, and he slides to the side of her so she can settle two-thirds on top of him, head over his heart. "I don't want to stop him just to lose you."_

 _He hums soothingly, stroking her back. "Iris West-Allen," he murmurs. "You're my lightning rod. I'll always come home to you."_

. o .

10:45 PM, **January 23, 2018**.

DeVoe glares at her through the glass. "Iris West-Allen," he greets coolly. She folds her arms and stands her ground, refusing to be intimidated by the electric surge of fear that courses down her back. "How is that dear husband of yours?" When she doesn't respond, he smiles. "You can hold your silence. I know he died. I gave him a lethal dose of a poison your chemists have not even invented yet. Even Speed cannot cure it." He laughs. "It is _magnificent_."

"You're sick," she tells him.

"Yes," he agrees. "That is why I stole Mr. Allen's Speed Force. Speed alone would have merely delayed the inevitable." Clenching a fist, he declares, "I have strangled death in its crib. I will now outlive all of you. By centuries. By _eons_." He grins wolfishly. "I have seen eternity, and I have claimed it as my own."

"Your powers won't work in this cell," Iris informs him.

DeVoe smiles. "I do not actually _want_ to kill you," he tells her, in an eerie, decided tone that makes her step back a pace. "However—" He phases through the cell. Iris' heart pounds; she cannot even reach out a hand to call Cisco. DeVoe holds up a vibrating hand. "I see killing Mr. Allen is insufficient."

He slashes downward—

"Iris?"

Iris blinks, standing in front of the empty suit rack, frozen in place, heart still racing. Slowly, she turns, facing the rest of the Cortex. Cisco's brows are furrowed. "You okay?" He walks towards her.

But she strides over to the monitor, pulling up the cell camera, and sees DeVoe smiling right at her. He taps his temple knowingly.

Everyone tenses. "He's still able to use his powers," Cisco realizes, reaching around her to type away, flushing the cell with a gaseous sedative. On-screen, DeVoe draws in a deep breath and holds it, watching them with unblinking golden eyes. Then he starts vibrating in place, his own world immune to the effects of the gas.

"How is he able to use his powers?" her dad demands. "That cell is—"

"Speedster-proof?" a new voice chimes in over the intercom. "You underestimate how strong speedsters are."

"Who the hell are you?" her dad demands, gun up, ready to fight. She aches for a plasma gun of her own, something to strike back, but can only stand in the center of the room, looking around for a threat that isn't there.

The gas spilling into the cell retreats, the clear image resolving into a smiling DeVoe. "That would be my wife," he tells them, and then disappears, vanishing through the cell.

Iris looks at Cisco, Caitlin, her dad, and Harry – and nods once.

Then the world around her disappears in a blur of golden light, and she reappears in a dream world, full of green.

. o .

Hour unknown, **date inconclusive**.

Wally holds his quarry and waits. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Anxiety rackets in his chest, silently counting the seconds, knowing that brain damage sets in after four and c'mon, c'mon, _c'mon_.

He finally whistles. "Speed Force?"

The darkness does not shift at all. Stars resolve around them, fathomless multitudes. Wally cannot help but look around, searching among them for a shape. But they are just stars, and the next rumble of thunder is even more distant than the previous one.

"I, uh – I'm on a clock," he says apologetically. "Maybe we could skip the whole 'doom and gloom' thing—"

Something dark Flashes up to him, and he tenses. Staring him dead in the face is the Black Flash.

"Oh," he says thinly, tightening his grip involuntarily on Barry. "Hey." He swallows hard. "You're not the Speed Force I'm looking for."

The Black Flash extends its clawed hands. Wally backs away. "No, no, he's not – I mean, he is, but—"

He Is Not Yours, the Black Flash says without opening its mouth, speaking to his soul, and Wally shivers.

"That's fair, but – I kinda need him? If that's cool?"

Surrender, the Black Flash snarls, baring its teeth, a sizeable chunk of its bony jaw exposed, Or Die.

Wally crushes the panic button in his fist.

. o .

11:18 PM, **January 23, 2018**.

"Incoming!" Wally barks, and that's all the warning the team has before the Black Flash leaps out of the breach behind him, sizing up the entire room and baring its teeth.

Cisco and Caitlin both tense. Caitlin goes cold, Cisco holds up his palms. "This is the night that keeps on giving," he says, and then the Black Flash lunges for them, and he fires the first impulse into its chest.

. o .

1:45 AM, **January 24, 2018**.

Leaving a room full of scorched earth, the Black Flash crouches beside the dead speedster and lifts Barry into its arms.

"Speed Force, buddy," Cisco begins, grimacing as he sits up, one hand cradling his fractured ribs. "You're supposed to be on our side, remember?"

The Black Flash bares its teeth. We Have No Side, it declares venomously, and vanishes with Barry.

Wally, dazed and holding a hand to his bleeding head, can only groan. "That didn't work."

. o .

2:03 AM, **January 24, 2018**.

"I want to show you something."

Iris plants her feet, holding her ground. She does not know this place, but she refuses to let it intimidate her. Panic will not save her. "I don't want to see it," she tells DeVoe.

He smirks, Flashing up to her. "He was like you," he muses, tone dark, forewarning. "Spirited." She doesn't blink, doesn't flinch from him. He smiles. "But even The Flash was human under the mask."

She hates the past tense, refusing to let it into her heart or mind. "He's coming for you," she warns.

"I know." DeVoe waves a hand dismissively. "I will indulge him in as many deaths as he desires." Flash, and they're both gone for an instant, reappearing in front of a green panel with a screen.

On screen, Iris can't look away from Barry on his knees, visibly straining to stand. " _You were the weakest link of all_ ," DeVoe is saying. " _You brought them all down with you. It is a mercy to them to remove you from the equation_."

Then the image changes, and she sees the team scattered around the Cortex in varying states of consciousness and disrepair, Black Flash standing in the center, Barry in its arms.

"Death," DeVoe says, "is the third slice of infinity."

. o .

9:04 AM, **January 24, 2018.**

"Hey, Allen, you're never gonna believe this, that Ramon guy's speedster detecting equipment picked up another— the hell?" Winn holds the folder up, frowning in disappointment. "Always late," he sighs, about-facing and trotting downstairs. He knocks on Singh's door, leaning his head around the corner. "Hey, Cap? You know I wouldn't bug you if it wasn't important but – we're picking up a third speedster in the area and you said to—"

Singh is out of his chair, snatching the folder from him and scanning. "Where's Allen?" he demands.

Winn laughs. "Million-dollar question, isn't it? He's usually all over this stuff—" Singh brushes past him, Winn's brow furrowing. "Flash and Kid'll take care of it, though, right?" he calls after the captain's retreating back.

He jabs the elevator button. "Return to your post," he barks, disappearing.

Winn pouts. "You know, _I'm_ a fan of speedsters, too," he replies, slinking back up to the lab.

. o .

9:20 AM, **January 24, 2018**.

"Barry's gone, Iris is gone, and the Black Flash is on the loose," Cisco recites dully. "That's 0-for-3."

"On the bright side, Kid Flash and Vibe are still on the case?" Wally supplies tentatively, stretching out his arms gingerly. The Black Flash took a serious knock out of him, but at least he has the benefit of Speed healing, unlike everybody else in the room. Even Cisco, optimism personified, is quiet at the computer console.

"I can't even Vibe Iris' location; the Mechanic threw up another e-wall and I can't get through it." Cisco buries his hands in his hair, swearing suddenly. "We need help."

"You need better security, too," a new voice announces.

Joe, silent vigil in the corner, says sharply, "Captain."

Singh sizes the room up. "Where the hell is Allen?" he demands. "We're picking up another speedster on the police radar."

For the first time in hours, Cisco brightens. "Another?"

"We only have two speedsters on record."

"Seven," Wally supplies without hesitation, ticking them off his fingers. "Kid Flash, Flash, Jay-Flash, Jesse Quick, Trajectory, Zoom, and Reverse Flash."

Singh stares.

"Two – two living ones," Wally offers. "Flash and Kid Flash."

"Black Flash," Cisco reminds.

The room chills.

"What's the Black Flash?" Singh asks.

. o .

9:22 AM, **January 24, 2018**.

It happens so quickly even DeVoe can't evade it.

One moment DeVoe is standing and talking with Marlize, the next he is grunting in pain when the Black Flash Itself shoves him against a wall hard. Growling thunderously _,_ it declares, " _I told you I would kill you if you touched them._ "

She knows that voice. Before she even recognizes him in the cowl, she shouts, "Barry, don't!"

It doesn't sound human, rumbling like a tiger, a deep, predatory noise that makes DeVoe pale. Marlize says, " _Clifford_."

The Black Flash snarls, and in an instant it's released DeVoe, bleeding profoundly from a slash across his stomach, and pins Marlize to the opposite wall.

" ** _NO!_** "

The anguish in DeVoe's voice is enough to make the Black Flash turn its head towards him. Marlize sinks a syringe into the underside of its arm, but the Black Flash merely yanks it out and crushes it in a hand. " _Ransom,_ " it snarls, holding her up by the throat. " _He gave up your life when he threatened my family._ "

DeVoe forces himself upright, Flashing over, and Iris watches in horror as the Black Flash releases Marlize and bulldozers DeVoe against a wall, sinking all ten claws deep into his chest. " _YOU TORTURED ME,"_ it shouts, drowning out DeVoe's scream. " _YOU DESERVE THIS._ "

Marlize, trembling, gets to her knees. DeVoe, dying, gasps, "You were given everything that night. I was given a death sentence."

The Black Flash growls in his face, pulling back its clawed hands and standing over DeVoe. " _I was given an opportunity._ " It reaches down, lifting DeVoe by the shirt, and holds up a vibrating hand. " _I was given an opportunity to rid the world of monsters like you._ "

Iris says, "Barry," and the Black Flash's growl deepens. " _Barry_ ," she repeats, and its hand speeds up, shoulders tensing in agitation. "Let him go."

" _He deserves this,_ " the Black Flash snarls. DeVoe's fingers scrabble uselessly for purchase against that black-coated, clawed hand.

"I know he hurt you," Iris says, desperate to keep it talking because she knows, she _knows_ this isn't a thing Barry will ever walk away from. "He will pay for his crimes, Barry, but this – this isn't _you_."

" _I've killed before,_ " the Black Flash says in a low voice that is tantalizingly close to Barry's. " _I should have killed others when I had the opportunity. I would have saved myself a lot of_ suffering _._ " He drops DeVoe suddenly, and DeVoe gasps against the floor. A clawed foot lands on his side, pinned him down. " _Move and I will break every bone in your body,_ " he snaps.

The window of opportunity, narrow as it is, calls to Iris: she rushes forward, and the Black Flash does not turn to her at all when she throws her arms around him.

It's shaking hard, and there is a wash of fear so deep it makes her breath catch in her chest, and it doesn't even turn to her, it just Flashes, and they're far outside city limits in the breathtaking cold, and the monster is looking at her and she's framing its cowl and saying, "Barry, Barry, Barry," because he's there, he's _there_.

Shaking its head in agitation, the Black Flash lets her go, stepping back. It snarls at the ground. Its claws drip blood. " _I have to kill him or he's gonna kill them all._ "

She takes its wrists, holding on. Its claws rest gently against her hand, still trembling, pouring off heat. Almost too hot to hold. She can feel DeVoe's blood on her and feels the hairs on her arms rise. "Barry," she says softly, "this isn't you. You're not an animal."

" _I am!_ " it thunders, tearing himself away, and she watches it pace, clawing at its own suit like it's burning it, shouting, " _This is who I am!_ "

She puts herself in its path and it doesn't turn away, staring down at her. "You're my Barry," she says, and for a moment the white eyes dim, and she sees – clawed hands rise to her shoulders, and it looks right at her, and something trembles in its visage.

" _I –_ " It swallows. It takes a knee, the great and terrible Black Flash, and presses both hands to its forehead. It's so Barry that she has to kneel in front of it, has to take its hands, holding them. " _I have to protect my family,_ " it says, trembling. " _I have to protect myself._ "

She pulls its head towards her, hugging it, and the Black Flash curls its claws against her back. "I know. I know." It doesn't cry, doesn't make a sound. But she doesn't back away, doesn't run – as every living creature who has ever met the Black Flash has been inclined to do.

Because she knows infinity like it is her own name, and she does not fear the light or darkness.

They Flash without warning, and they're back in the green room, and Marlize is hunched over DeVoe, sobbing. The Black Flash lets Iris go and walks over to them. The Black Flash crouches, suddenly, eerily quiet, human.

It lifts DeVoe in its arms.

Marlize puts a hand on his elbow, fierce and terrified. Iris can feel it pouring from her, but she doesn't back down, even when the Black Flash looks pointedly down at her hand, and then in her eyes. "You have no reason to save him," she says, and Iris can hear the shiver of fear in her voice. "But please. Please."

He steps away from her hold. His clawed hands dig into DeVoe's sides, but DeVoe does not respond. Walking over to Iris, he bows his head, still holding DeVoe. " _What do you want me to do?_ "

Marlize is watching her, and she knows DeVoe is dying – knows that only a speedster could hope to get him help fast enough – but she cannot respond for a long moment, staring at her Barry, ensconced in the nightmare's image.

"I want you to do what you always do, Barry," she says, and he lifts his head, meeting her eyes.

In a blink, they disappear –

. o .

3:09 PM, **January 24, 2018.**

One either side of DeVoe, Death and the Mechanic sit.

Idly, the Black Flash reaches into a drawer near the bed and produces a pack of cards, well-worn from late nights with Cisco, entertaining themselves while he slowly healed over. The Black Flash levels a flat look at Marlize.

Silently, she takes the handful it passes her, and they play War while DeVoe rests between them.

. o .

3:51 PM, **January 24, 2018**.

The Black Flash rises from his seat when Caitlin enters the room, Cisco at her side.

Cisco stares at the Black Flash without blinking, glancing down at its clawed hands, at its white eyes, shivering at the radioactive fear it emanates, poisoning the room. Cisco knows Death. The Black Flash keeps its silence, knowing that it has no words to comfort the living. Caitlin, methodical, proceeds as though it isn't there at all.

The Black Flash exits the room, and DeVoe lives.

. o .

5:31 PM, **January 24, 2018**.

" _I don't have any evidence of foul play._ "

Singh huffs. He sips a coffee, passing one to the Black Flash. It's strange, dining with Death Incarnate. "We have evidence," he assures. The Black Flash takes the coffee and drinks deeply, setting down the empty cup and staring uncomprehendingly at the police captain.

It curls its clawed hand around a second cup of coffee that Wally hands it. Wally slips away before the Black Flash's claws can graze his hand accidentally. It understands the impulse. " _I don't understand,_ " it admits.

"Marlize DeVoe confessed."

The Black Flash stops drinking its coffee, setting it down on Joe's kitchen table. " _Why?_ "

"'Ransom,'" Singh quotes.

A shiver walks down the Black Flash's spine. " _He'll be difficult to contain,_ " it admits.

Singh nods appreciatively. "Yes. He will." Then, stirring his own coffee, he adds, "To be honest, all of this is new territory."

The Black Flash finishes his coffee and nods once. It rises from the table. " _I have to go._ "

Singh looks up at it. "Do you intend to return?"

The Black Flash stays silent.

Leaning forward, Singh confides, "Central City could stand on its own without The Flash. But your life is more than your job, Barry."

The Black Flash extends a clawed hand. Without hesitation, Singh stands, clasps it, shakes it once.

" _Be good_ ," is all the Black Flash says, vanishing.

. o .

7:59 PM, **January 24, 2018**.

Cisco clasps Iris' hand. "Second time's the charm, right?" he asks, a hint of humor in the quirk of his smile.

Iris exhales. She's exhausted, but she can't sleep. Not until they get their boy back. Nodding, she says, "How's standby, Wally?"

Sitting on the first step, Wally holds up a thumb. "Ready to go fishing if needed," he promises, Caitlin standing at the monitor nearby. Dad will be back as soon as he clears things up with the captain. Iris hopes – perhaps foolishly, but never without hope – that they'll be plus-one by the time he arrives.

"All right. Let's do this," Cisco says, and together, they step out of their world and into the Speed storm.

. o .

Hour unknown, **date inconclusive**.

The Black Flash sits patiently beside the Speed-tiger.

" _How can I face them again?_ " it asks the Speed-tiger.

The Speed-tiger rests presses its forehead against its side. We Will Always Be Here, it promises, and then it rises, and walks off, disappearing.

The Black Flash inhales, exhales.

When it hears a familiar voice – _Barry_ – it rises, and turns.

 _Iris_.

Tears finally pool in its eyes, and it steps forward, staggering towards her. "What are you doing here?" it asks her, like it didn't know she was coming, like it didn't sit her ready to wait an eternity for her to find him.

She throws her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly, and says, "I told you to come home. I'm here to bring you there."

For a long time – an immeasurable time – they stand swaying together, surrounded by nothing, and everything. Her hands are warm against his back, and he slowly, slowly releases her. She doesn't let him go, sliding her hands up to his cowl, and for a moment he fears he will simply disintegrate without it, disappearing like dust the second it is removed, but he doesn't pull away, and she unmasks him without flinching.

He sees gold reflected in her eyes, and when he looks down he sees red washing away the black suit, warmth pooling where coldness dominated, stilling perpetual shivers. The claws sink, retreat. The menacing growl in his chest dies to a familiar Speed-purr, and he hugs her tightly, clutching her, whispering, "It's me, it's me, it's me," like he needs to affirm it.

Hand tangled in his hair, cradling the back of his neck, she says, "I know," and he presses his tears against her shoulder, relieved to his soul.

. o .

 _A time later_ , in the multiverse.

Cisco hugs him for ten minutes. "I'm glad it's you," he says, clasping Barry's shoulder.

Wally fist-bumps him before accepting a briefer hug. "Missed having a sidekick," he teases, and Barry finds a small smile.

Joe just bear-hugs him, patting his back a couple times, hard enough to say, _I've got you_ without words.

He greets them all, in due time, assuring him with his mere presence that he is truly human again.

But there is lightning in his veins, and when he visits DeVoe, he can tell that he bled DeVoe's lightning out of him, severing the bond he tried so hard to grasp. "Hello, Mr. Allen," DeVoe greets him.

Barry leans a shoulder against the doorframe, silently regarding him.

"I underestimated you," DeVoe muses, sitting back against the pillows. "I did not think the universe chose sides."

"It doesn't," Barry says, pushing off the frame and stepping forward. "I did."

With a thoughtful _hm_ , DeVoe asks, "So this is how we fall apart. I die, and you go on. Exactly as history has been written."

"There's another way." DeVoe lifts both eyebrows. Barry smiles ruefully. "You already knew it."

DeVoe nods once, admitting, "It has occurred to me."

Taking a chair beside him, Barry asks quietly, "Then why risk it all?" Looking out into the Cortex – at Iris and Marlize, surrounded by his pack, protected from all sides – he says, "Giving one thing up would save your life."

Smiling ruefully, DeVoe challenges, "Could you give up _your_ gift?"

"I did," Barry says simply.

DeVoe is silent for a long, assessing moment. There are officers arriving on the scene, accompanying Singh, and Marlize does not attempt to fight back when they cuff her.

Barry closes his eyes for a moment. It'll be a long night. He reaches up to pinch his brow, and DeVoe drawls, "It has been an adventure, Mr. Allen, but I am afraid mine is nearing completion." He drops his hand, staring at DeVoe.

"Then make a new adventure," he challenges. "Love her enough to live anyway." He nods at Marlize, watching them – ready to step in, even if there is no way she can possibly stop him, or save DeVoe.

Officers step into the room, cuffing DeVoe, reading him his rights. Letting them take care of it, Barry steps back into the Cortex, back up to Iris, draping an arm around her waist and squeezing it gently.

"I love you," he tells her simply, sincerely, kissing her temple.

She squeezes him back, head against his shoulder, and promises, "I love you, too."

Jesse and Jay show up just before midnight to take on the task of keeping the DeVoes under watch, but looking at them, Barry knows it will work out.

Because what he alone cannot accomplish, his family _can_.

. o .

With breathless affection, exhausted to his core but so _relieved_ , he murmurs against Iris' skin, "I love you. I love you," he repeats, kissing her cheek, her jaw, anywhere he can reach. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

She tugs him down and he rolls onto his side next to her, welcoming her into his embrace. She slides a hand into the hair at the back of his neck, scratching softly. "I love you, too."

Resting his forehead against hers, he dares to close his eyes, dares to breathe, dares to relax with her.

Because that is the infinity _he_ embraces, the infinity he recognizes as absolute, no matter how dark, how dire his world becomes: _love_.

She is his eternity.


End file.
